Lost and Found (23 page)

. . . profound blog entries.

I stop and think about her question. How did I determine my purpose? Uh, I grew up in utter humiliation and vowed I'd never live that way again? Duh.

Regarding purpose: My life circumstances clarified my purpose. My advice is to look at your circumstances and determine what about your situation you want to keep, and what you'd like to change. Perhaps your purpose will reveal itself in the process.

My turn: Why are you so passionate about religion?

A. Bell

This chick isn't very self-aware. Anyone who reads her blog knows her purpose is wound up in her beliefs or her religion or whatever. But she can't see it? What's with that? I may think her purpose is hokey, but to each his own.

Then I reconsider. Okay, maybe it's not hokey. It's just . . .

Whatever.

I have work to do. I close my mail folder and turn my attention back to Azul . . . and Brigitte.

An external religion, with its rules and forms, has taken the place of an inward experience with Christ.

JEANNE GUYON

I SIT AT
the large antique desk in the den of the chateau—the vineyard sprawling before me—my fingers on the keys of my laptop. Guilt pricks my conscience as I read Andee's e-mail. She assumes she's writing to a stranger. Her first e-mail a few weeks ago startled me. It was the first time someone I knew responded to my blog. I responded back, not giving myself time to think about it. I thought that would be the end of it.

But then she replied and her question about my purpose hit me, and I answered with the truth, almost forgetting I was responding to someone I knew. When I didn't hear back from her, I was relieved.

Today's e-mail from her caught me off guard. What could I say that was truthful but wouldn't reveal my identity? Which made me wonder again at the dichotomy of wanting to share truth but instead, hiding behind a lie. Or at least an omission. My blog is where I'm most transparent and free to be myself. Yet, I'm not myself at all. I'm anonymous.

The parallel to my life isn't lost on me.

I chose my words to Andee with care. To say there'd been a death in the family might tip her off. A personal crisis was true, and yet . . .

Again, I consider Andee's e-mail. Drawing her in by asking questions was foolish. Yet, having spent some time with her now, I long to engage her on another level. To break through that self-protective barrier that's so evident. There is a vulnerable, and I'd guess, wounded soul, beneath the polished exterior.

I understand now why Jason is drawn to her, though I am concerned for him—for his heart.

But as far as the blog, I can't reveal my identity. If Brigitte were to discover . . . Well, it just isn't an option. I press
send
and my e-mail to Andee is off to her. Then I reach for the lid of my laptop to close it. As I do, the light from the fixture above catches the diamonds in the band on my left hand and sends small dots of light dancing across the wall. I reach for the ring and twist it around my finger, finding comfort in its meaning.

You are my Husband. I will have no other god before you.

I get up from the desk and wander to the kitchen, but a niggling sense of unrest follows me. I ignore it and place a mug under the spigot of the coffeemaker. I add a little cream and stir the coffee as I consider Andee's advice:
Look at your circumstances and determine what about your situation you want to keep, and what you'd like to change.

Oh, if you only knew.
How many times in the last eleven years have I wished to change my circumstances? Too many to count. And now? If I could change anything, I'd bring Gerard back.

Or . . . would I?

The thought has nagged me since reading Andee's e-mail for the first time this morning. It has nagged every time I've read it since. If I had the power to change anything, would I wish Gerard back to life? The answer, I'm ashamed to admit, is no. Though I grieve him and know I will miss him, there is a new freedom with his death.

I feel the scarlet of shame creeping up my neck and face.

"Oh, Lord, forgive me. I'm so sorry." I cover my face and wait for the tears to come, but they don't. I take my hands away from my face and take a deep breath.

There was a hopelessness to Gerard's existence. Not because he was without eternal hope—he believed—but because he didn't live out of that hope while he was alive. Instead, without meaning to, he placed his hope in his mother. His hope, his loyalty, his very life. His death ends the pain of watching him, day-by-day, slip further away into the comfort of detachment or the seeming solace of alcohol.

Now he is at peace. Finally.

But it isn't just that.

There's Brigitte, of course. And with Gerard's death comes the hope of escaping her clutches.

When I married Gerard, he lived with Brigitte and it was understood that, as a couple, we, too, would live with her. Gerard explained that, since his father's death, it had been his role to care for his mother. Although she never allowed him to care for her. She took care of everything, including herself. I didn't question the decision. At twenty-one, I was enamored with Brigitte, the home in the city, and the life I'd idealized.

Reality proved a poor substitute for what I'd imagined and when, a few years after our marriage, I spoke with Gerard about buying our own home, his unwillingness, or perhaps his inability to "leave and cleave" became evident. I recalled my father's warning, but by then it was too late.

Back to Andee's question: What would I change? What
wouldn't
I change? But foremost, I'd walk away from Brigitte. I dream of it. I fantasize about it. When Gerard died, I began to hope. But I'm still bound to her. I must honor Gerard's request that I care for her. I must love her, as God calls me to love everyone, even my enemies.

I sigh.

Brigitte is my cross to bear. I've understood this for many years.

Understood
. . . Matthew's words come back to me—King Solomon's words from Proverbs:
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
For the first time, I wonder if I've misunderstood Jesus' decree that
anyone who does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me?
But what else could it mean? I'm to bear my circumstances, but in doing so I share in the sufferings of Christ, right?

Stand back, Jenna.

The words breeze through my mind and soul. And again, for what seems like the hundredth time, I ask, "Stand back from what?" Agitation marks my question. "Stand back from my own understanding?" The words are out of my mouth before I've even thought them. Where did they come from?

Were they from God?

Lord, have I misunderstood?
With my prayer comes a hope that brings me to tears. And with the hope a sense of relief so intense that it points to the depth of my emotional fatigue with Brigitte.

But how can I care for Brigitte, love her as God calls me to love her,
and
walk away? It doesn't make sense. I reach for my calendar and on the small square where I've noted my next appointment with Matthew, I write the initial B. Maybe this will be the topic of my next session.

In the meantime, I will enjoy my moments of freedom, here, now, while I'm away. Just as Gerard and I used to do. Tomorrow, I will return to Pacific Heights, and to Brigitte.

I dump my now-cold coffee in the sink and determine to think about something else.

I head back to the den and my computer. I sit at the desk again and open the laptop and return to Andee's note and her question for me:
Why are you so passionate about religion?
I am still for several moments before I lift my fingers to the keys. In those moments, I pray.
Lord, give me Your words for Andee. May she sense Your love and grace.

Dear Andee,

I'm not passionate about religion. I'm passionate about a relationship—my relationship with Jesus.

I stop typing and consider what I know about Andee—or at least what I think I've observed. She's self-sufficient, controlled, and intelligent. She makes choices based on logic, or thoughts, rather than feelings. And she's . . . I close my eyes and wait. I sense the Spirit leading my thoughts. She's . . . afraid.

Ah. Perhaps the wounding I sensed in her has something to do with her fear.

I return to the e-mail and feel my passion stirring. It's when I'm engaged in an exchange with a reader that I feel most alive. These are the times when I sense the Spirit's presence in me, through me, around me. I catch my breath and whisper, "Thank You," and then continue my note to Andee.

Religion is about rules and rituals and expectations. Religion comes with judgment. Jesus is about total acceptance and unconditional love. One of my favorite verses says that in Jesus there is no condemnation.

If you read my blog, then you know I'm imperfect, struggling to find my way, and often afraid. Yet, Jesus loves me.

Oh, I could go on and on, but this feels like enough. My instinct with Andee tells me to keep things short and to the point. I leave the e-mail unsigned as usual and press
send
. I let the condemning thought about my anonymity go.

"Father, lead me . . ."

I trust, or try to trust, that He will show me the time and the way in which to reveal myself. If that is His desire for me.

The only perfect fellowship is the union of spirits in God. This union not only exists in heaven, but also on earth as the resurrecting power of life begins to transform the believer.

JEANNE GUYON

ON SATURDAY MORNING,
I roll over in bed, look through the crack between the blind and our window, and see that the sun is shining. Looks like an awesome fall day. I glance at Tess. "Breakfast?" She knows what I mean.

"Mmm . . . absolutely." She throws the covers back and leaps out of bed. "I get the bathroom!" Then she lunges toward our one small bathroom.

But my legs are longer than hers. I jump up, follow her, and then wrestle her for position in the hallway. "Oh, no you don't!" I beat her to the bathroom, open the door, and then I surprise her by bowing, and making a sweeping gesture. "It's all yours, m'lady. But hurry, I'm hungry."

She laughs. "Just give me time to wash my face and brush my teeth."

While she does that, I go to our closet, reach for sweats, a T-shirt, and my favorite flannel shirt. I step into tennis shoes, bend to tie them, and then take my turn in the bathroom. Within twenty minutes we're on the street and heading for our favorite neighborhood cafe where the grub is good and the coffee cups bottomless.

We walk and talk, ribbing each other along the way.

"You know, I only let you wear that outfit because we never see anyone we know at this place."

I eye her flawless designer—though purchased at a discount—olive-colored yoga pants and matching jacket. "And I only let you wear that outfit because I'm above what other people think."

She swats at me and laughs. "Yeah, right."

We cover the three blocks to the cafe in record time and claim our favorite table by the window. Before our napkins are even on our laps our coffee cups are full. Cool. I reach for the half and half and the sugar.

"You're going to get fat, babe."

She, of course, drinks hers black.

"Yeah, but I'm not a real man like you. I can't take it black."

She leans across the table and takes my face in her hands and gives me a lingering kiss. "You're man enough for me."

"Well, that's a relief." I smile and then pick up the menu. I try something different each time we come.

"So, what'll it be this time?" Our waitress, coffeepot in one hand and an empty plate in the other, swings by our table and waits while I decide.

"How about the San Fran Scramble, with grilled potatoes, and OJ."

"Good choice. And the usual for you?"

Tess nods.

The usual is one poached egg and a piece of dry wheat toast. Why bother?